I never slept that night, my mind was far too troubled, my heart too overwhelmed, and my guilt threatening to consume me. I picked up a copy of Dante Alighieri's "The Divine Comedy", and thumbed through my favorite sections. Books were a treasure to a lonely man, and I never took them for granted. I was almost able to completely lose touch with reality when reading, but not quite-only music had that affect on me. Halfway through the fourth canto of "Inferno", I set the poetry aside, and began pacing around my bedroom. Several ideas rushed through my frantic brain..."Let Christine see you, if she runs, let that be the end of things..." Then, there would be no guilt, no need to hold myself back from touching her, no secrets, no more of my own "Divine Comedy". No more Christine. And, what was there for me without her?
Nothing.

It was my whole world just to see her smile, to watch the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. No, no foolish plans to end this cruel farce. What I had started, I had to see through to the end. An end that, by any means, would be tragedy. How could it be anything else? Here we were, the tortured, loving maestro and his adoring, disillusioned protege', at the beginning of their own private Opera, and I could already sense that the last act would bear the crumbling of our lives.

I was restless and enraged with extreme self-loathing. Everywhere I looked, I saw the products of some twisted, obsessed monster: a coffin for my bed, crimson curtains decking the walls (which I quickly ripped from their places and slung onto the tilting coffin), music written in ink red as blood. Had my dearest one not been fast asleep, I would have screamed and torn the whole room to pieces. But, she was there, in the room next to my own, and without knowing, she'd saved me from myself once again.

I had to calm down, to find some fleeting peace until my savior awoke and wove me under her spell. So, I turned to my composition..."Don Juan Triumphant." It would be a wonderful opera, too powerful for any heart to withstand unscathed.

And, it was for her, all the passion and pain, for my beloved, reluctant one.
Not able to wait another moment, Don Juan's second act aria taking control of my thoughts, I rushed to the main room, and sat behind the large, Gothic organ. Peace only came with the madness of music.

I must have composed for hours, melodies so utterly consuming me, that I was quite outside of myself. I forgot who I was. In the glory of song, I was loved and adored for my abilities, for myself. But, I was also allowed to reek my vengeance on the rest of the world without actually harming another soul, just by the pressing of some dissonant chords. Yes, music was definitely a language in itself, and by far the most spectacular and universal of them all.
* * * * * * * * * *

I must have been too enraptured by my composing, for I failed to notice the cruel, little hand that snatched my mask away.

At least, she didn't scream. Or maybe, the fact that she cowered away from me, her voice caught in her precious throat, was worse than if she'd simply screamed. I can't say, only that her reaction was far more than I could bear.

She had apparently risen at the sound of the boisterous organ and quietly made her way into the main room, tiptoeing behind my back. Of course, I hadn't noticed as she edged closer and closer, her fingers finally gripping the whiteness of my mask and stealing it to reveal my naked face. I rounded on her, darting up from the organ bench and towering over her as she stepped backwards, trying to flee from the horror that was my visage. I couldn't handle the sight of her, her tiny body raking with shivers of terror, all the color drained from her ashen cheeks, as she fell to her knees, a wall preventing her from moving farther away from me.

"Are you happy, now?!" I snarled, leaning over her, as she clutched her arms tightly around her heaving chest, mask still in the folds of her fingers. "I take it, from your reaction, that you're not pleased with what you see. And, for that, I apologize." I bared my teeth as some jungle beast might, terrorizing her with the caustic tone of my words. But, I was a beast, a monster. I'd never been told to think myself anything better. Well, I'd almost felt human when Christine had entered my life, but it now appeared that the monster inside was going to take over once more. "Such a Don Juan, am I, don't you think? Or does your girlish imagination urge you to believe that what you see before you, what you are obviously very afraid of, is actually another mask? That no man can be this ugly!" I grabbed her thin wrists and jerked her upwards, causing her to look me in the eyes. She emitted a sound, a weak moan, as I took hold of her so roughly. I forced her fingers into my flesh, the claws of her nails digging into my cheeks until blood covered them. "It's not a mask, you foolish girl, it's real and nothing can change that fact! I'm not some handsome, noble idiot like your darling, sniveling Vicomte, am I?!" She lurched into her body, trying as hard as she could to get away from me. The child winced, shutting her eyes to the horror before her. I swung her to the ground, her ankles knocking together as she hit the cold wall. "How could you, Christine? How could you betray me like this? When, I would do anything for you?

She sobbed, abundant tears coursing down her hot cheeks, as her dreams, and my own lay shattered. Anger drained from me, morphing into an overwhelming self-loathing that coated my words. "Could you not be content with my voice, with my teachings? It was only for you that I came out of hiding, that I felt it necessary to make contact with another human being! I was ready to die . . .that is, until I saw you, until I heard you!"

I melted to the ground in front of her, my knees giving out, too overtaken by sorrow to stand any longer. My voice softened as I came to the sad realization, that I had just treated her as my appearance notated...like the monster I surely was. The girl, my former savior, now turned destroyer, lips moving, but no audible sound emerging from them. She was in hysterics, and began to hyperventilate, biting into her lip, and scratching at her arms, while her body rocked with the power of her sobs. In less than a few minutes time, we had turned our universe into chaos, warped our minds to the point where repair was useless.

"Erik, Erik . . ." She kept repeating my name in an endless series of barely comprehensible cries which twisted my hardened heart beyond salvage. I wanted to die. It seemed the only logical thing left for me. Any hope that might have surfaced in my breast now lay wasted in this fragile woman's eyes. At least, I would die near Christine, seeing her as I breathed my miserable last.

She should run now, I reasoned. Seeing how prone and volatile I was, crumbling on the floor; it would be her opportunity.

But, she didn't.

Instead, she was moving towards me, ever slowly, dragging herself across the ground.
"Erik." She finally managed to utter my name without stuttering, all trace of fear vanished from her features and replaced by something else. But, not pity. God, I prayed it wasn't pity that filled her tortured heart! Now, mere inches from my face, she extended her hands, mask in one of them, and reached for me. I whispered her name as she cupped my head between her palms, trembling violently at her touch.

"Christine, I'm so sorry...so very sorry..."

With uncertain hands, she tied the mask around my face once again. Then she rubbed her fingertips over the pink of my lips, taking her time, as if she wasn't sure what she was feeling, only that it was beyond her recognition. Before dropping her hands from my skin, she closed her lids and sighed,"No. . ." Rising quickly on unstable feet, she gave me one final despairing gaze, before stumbling to her room and shutting the door behind her.

With that gesture, I could no longer hold back my own tears, and they nearly suffocated me beneath the holdings of my mask. As I pressed my face into my hands, I heard her crying uncontrollably from the safety of her bedroom. In that moment, I knew, she would never again be able to call me 'Angel'. What had I, what had she, done?"
* * * * * * * * * *

I didn't see Christine until late that evening, when she finally decided to abandon the somber cocoon she'd made of her room. I was sprawled out across the velvet covered divan, my arms hanging off, miserable head crushed against the fabric of a pillow, and drowning in my own despair. I didn't look up when I heard her opening the door, not until she stood, subtly shaking in front of the couch.

"Erik?" Her voice quivered, like her fragile body, and I thought the air might demolish her along with her words. "I'm sor...I'm sorry, Erik. I had no right to remove your mask..no right at all, and I wish-"

I cut her off, knowing what she would say. "And, you wish you'd never done it." She nodded sadly. "Yes, I know, Christine. Now, you'd also like to tell me how you pity me, right? And, that you'll still be my 'friend' out of the 'goodness' of your heart...am I correct, mon chere?" My speech was laced with a merciless, loathful bitterness. She didn't say anything, just stared at me dumbly, twisting the lace of her dressing gown between her nervous fingers. So, I continued, sitting back on the couch, hands perched like claws on my knees. "But, now you have your excuse, don't you, you have your reason to run, Christine, to run into the safe arms of your little Vicomte?" I could see her slight muscles tensing, the change of her neck as she gulped hard. Yes, she couldn't deny it, could she? And, my misery grew . . .

"To forget about me . . ."

"Erik!" She protested. My words had wounded her. And, I knew not why.
I rose, standing just a few infinite inches from her. To my surprise, she did not back away, but only fiddled more with her hands. "Well, isn't that the truth, my dear? All the thoughts going through your head?"

The girl met my eyes, unflinching, her arms crossing over her heaving chest. "No, that wasn't what I was thinking at all." Tears fought their way from the corners of her luminous eyes. "I was going to ask you if we could have a lesson," Her voice cracked amid her crying, and it seemed that I'd bullied her with my assumptions. I believed my heart would break at her request, at the way she hadn't even mentioned my face, at her swiftly falling, broken tears . . .

"Yes, of course, Christine." I fished frantically in my jacket pocket, in search of a handkerchief for her face. Obviously, I didn't require one, but I often carried one on my person for fashion's sake. "Please, don't cry, my dear...I can stand anything but your tears...it hurts me more than I can say . . ." She allowed me to blot her face with the embroidered clothe, all the while sniveling. "Christine," I offered her the kerchief, to blow her nose, and directed her to the piano with an initially awkward gesture of my arm. My slight confidence grew as she followed me, and the only thing to do was play, teach, fight off hell for another day or two...